


Doused

by BleedingTypewriter



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Consensual Kink, Desperation, Established Relationship, First Time, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Omorashi, Piss kink, Pure Indulgent Porn, heavy kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:54:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21663256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleedingTypewriter/pseuds/BleedingTypewriter
Summary: Lance intends their first road trip as actual boyfriends to bring them closer together. And it does.Kind of.____________"There’s no privacy, not even a cactus big enough and close enough to the road to allow any semblance of safe cover.So, this, uh...This is mortifying."____________Gift fic for s1nparty.Check the tags.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 59
Kudos: 333





	Doused

**Author's Note:**

  * For [S1NPARTY (S3APARTY)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/S3APARTY/gifts).



The whole thing, really, is Keith’s fault. He’d asked Lance, idly, what  _ Die Hard _ was after Lance had made some innocuous little reference to it, and what the fuck was Lance supposed to do with that except find it for rent on their hotel TV and force Keith to watch it with him? So they’d stayed up late arguing about Bruce Willis, and Lance had woken up on the other side of far too little sleep with far too many hours of driving ahead.

(He’ll never admit to Keith— _ never _ —that he’d maybe been right in the planning of this little road trip down back down to Blue’s cave; they  _ maybe _ should’ve taken an extra bit of travel time and cut the number of miles to drive per day.  _ Maybe _ .)

So, anyway, he’d chugged three cups of shitty hotel coffee and grabbed an energy drink for the road and enjoyed one last leisurely stretch before hopping behind the wheel.

And really, they’d only been at it for an hour when they’d passed their first gas station, so it had seemed ridiculous to stop.

And now they’re on this stretch of desert highway, and there’s a persistent urge making itself increasingly known between his legs.

There’s nothing but sand and cacti and distant mesas on all sides of them. The highway isn’t busy, per se, but they pass other cars at a slow, steady frequency. There’s no privacy, not even a cactus big enough and close enough to the road to allow any semblance of safe cover.

So, this, uh...

This is mortifying.

The first half hour is mostly okay, though every bump in the road becomes increasingly painful. But the urge steadily grows into a pressure, which grows into an ache, which grows into a tingling series of spasms with a sick, primal throb in between. They cut off the radio when it gets to be more static than music, so there’s nothing to distract him. Keith is staring idly out the window, content to quietly daydream (small blessings: at least he’s not paying attention), and there’s nothing of interest on the road outside trying to guess the makes and models of passing cars; the contents of passing semis.

He gives that up when a truck declaring “Natural Spring Water” drives by, the entire side of it a lifelike rendering of a tropical waterfall.

A few minutes later and he’s bouncing the leg not occupied with keeping the car moving. They’re still a solid twenty minutes, maybe more, from the next town, and Keith has shifted in his seat, so he’s staring out the windshield.

Lance white-knuckles the wheel, and bemoans the fact that he can’t cross his legs while he’s driving. It  _ hurts _ ; hurts in all the spaces between the bones of his hands; hurts in the base of his pelvis, clenched desperately tight. The urge is  _ all _ . It’s in every part of his body, concentrated in his bladder but unignorable in the expansion of his lungs, the beat of his heart, the shift of his thigh muscles. It’s in every little autonomous function his body serves: the deep, aching desire to just  _ let go _ .

“Hey...you okay…?”

He’s almost tempted to drive off the road, but they’re in a fucking desert, so there’s nothing to put him out of his misery. He’d probably just stall the car with dust and sand and end up pissing himself anyway.

In front of Keith.

_ So, this, uh _ …

_ This is mortifying _ .

God, he’d suggested this whole roadtrip in the first place because this thing between them is so  _ new _ ; because he’d thought maybe going back to the beginning of the end of their rivalry would help strengthen the end of the beginning of their relationship. (Keith had called him a ridiculous sap, and told him his thought process contained twice the number of words it required, and blushed, and kissed him, and looked up a route right there and then on his phone.) They’re barely into the  _ boyfriend _ phase. Hell, they’re barely a few weeks past their first kiss. Lance is still riding high on their first heavy petting session, just a week prior.

He’s supposed to be breezy on this trip. Breezy and easy and  _ such a good boyfriend oh my god _ . He’s supposed to be all sunglasses and tanlines and charm.

He is  _ not _ supposed to be a harsh breath away from pissing himself like the child he’d been so sure Keith saw him as before they’d gotten together. 

“’mfine,” he says, and the urge is  _ there _ , too, in the vibrations of his vocal chords. He swears he can  _ feel _ his bladder overflow;  _ feel _ the first drops move into his urethra so he has to strain and twist his hips to stop it. The car swerves a little, and he’s forced to still himself.

They hit a bump, and he chokes on a groan. He can’t be sure if there’s a tiny wet spot growing in his underwear, or if he’s actually starting to sweat with exertion.

“Are you sure?”

Lance bites his lip. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Keith looking his way, now; looking  _ right at him _ , and  _ surely _ seeing the desperation in his body language; the horror and shame and dread etched onto his face. It takes a special sort of situation to get his face red enough to show through his dark complexion, but he’s sure he must be blushing something fierce.

“...no.”

He’s not sure if he’s grateful to the cogs in Keith’s head or not when he sees them turning; sees his boyfriend’s sharp, preternatural eyes dart all over his body before settling on his abdomen (and  _ fuckfuckfuck _ his stare is like a fucking weight, and he clenches everything below the waist so hard the car swerves again).

“Oh,” Keith says finally; neutrally. “Do you want to stop?”

Lance would snort, but he worries it would break the dam. “Nowhere  _ to _ stop.”

It looks like Keith is going to argue for a second. Lance is supremely thankful when he glances back out the windshield at an approaching minivan and shuts his jaw with a click.

“Do you have a cup or something?”

Lance chokes; flails his left leg so it hits the door and bruises his knee and  _ barely _ keeps the flood at bay. “I’m  _ driving _ .”

“We can switch.”

Lance’s bottom jaw quivers. He wants to tell Keith that he’s not sure he’s going to make it long enough to pull over and unbuckle and switch spots, but then it occurs to him that he’s not positive he’d even make it through that sentence, so he settles on a pained, “ _ Can’t _ ...oh my god, I…”

He kind of feels like he’s going to cry, and fuck if  _ that _ doesn’t make things worse: the threat of another liquid escaping his body.

And then Keith is moving, rummaging around in the backseat, righting himself again and reaching over  _ into his lap _ …

The swerve the car makes this time is decidedly worrisome, but not so much as the fresh gush Lance feels as he reflexively tenses. “ _ Keith _ …!”

“It’s okay,” Keith says, “It’s okay, just focus on the road. I’ve got you.”

Somehow, Lance thinks through the fog of his shock and horror, it’s so very  _ Keith _ to do this: to go straight for the first solution he thinks will work in time, heedless of the consequences. Heedless of the fact that  _ they haven’t even seen each other yet _ , let alone indulged in any skin-on-skin below-the-belt contact. Heedless of the fact that  _ the first time he touches Lance’s dick he’s going to get his piss on him _ .

“Keith, don’t—you don’t have to—I don’t think—”

_ Christ _ , just getting that much out and staying dry is a struggle. He can feel the need to release in his  _ throat _ .

But Keith just keeps murmuring, “It’s okay, it’s okay, don’t worry, I’ve got you…”

And in the moment, Lance has to piss too much to notice the way his pupils have blown; the way his hands shake as he unzips Lance and reaches his hand inside. He won’t think about it, not for  _ hours _ , the way Keith gasps at the feel of his soft, damp cock without even the hint of a disgusted wrinkle across the bridge of his nose.

Just the  _ touch _ is almost enough to have him bursting. Another trickle oozes free, only this time Keith must be able to see it; and  _ fuck _ , it’s so much worse, because he still has to control the car. He can’t look down to judge for himself the abasement his own traitorous body is putting him through.

He can’t even enjoy, really, the fact that his boyfriend is touching him for the first time, and that might upset him more than anything. Keith will forever equate his first intimate glimpse of Lance with  _ this _ .

God, his underwear must be damp against Keith’s fingers.

They must be  _ warm _ .

He can  _ hear _ the way Keith chokes, and the shame drags itself down Lance’s spine, and it doesn’t help anything because the horrid, sharp urge to  _ pee his pants _ is dragging itself along that same route.

Then there’s something hard just below his head, and Keith’s gentle fingertips aiming him carefully into an empty styrofoam coffee cup, and his boyfriend’s (still carefully neutral) whisper: “Go ahead.”

And if he’d known it would cause  _ this _ response in his body, he maybe would have pictured it in detail before now.

Because he totally and completely locks up.

Keith is holding his dick for the first time and he has to piss so bad he feels nauseous and it’s all just so fucking much that the urge recedes into a deep part of his body he doesn’t know he’s ever felt  _ anything _ in. The ache snakes out along all his limbs until his whole body is vibrating with it and it’s all—literally, totally, completely, unequivocally  _ all _ —he can do to keep the car on the road.

“I...I  _ can’t _ …not like  _ this _ ...”

He doesn’t know whether the embarrassment in his voice stems from the situation itself, or his own inability to take proper advantage of it. As ridiculous at it feels to sit there with his flaccid, wet dick in his boyfriend’s hand, it feels markedly worse to  _ just keep sitting there _ , nothing happening, trembling and barely driving at half the speed limit.

“You can,” Keith encourages, index finger drawing back to pull his foreskin out of the way (oh  _ Christ _ , Lance is going to  _ die _ ). “Just relax, it’s all okay. You can let go for me…”

Lance risks a glance at him. There’s a flush on his face, high on his cheekbones and streaking back toward his ears. The poor guy looks totally aghast, mouth slack and eyes darting between Lance and the road and his dick (in Keith’s  _ hand _ ; his  _ wet dick _ in Keith’s hand,  _ oh _ — ). The fact that he’s being so nice about the whole thing, so calm and cool and reassuring, almost makes it worse. He’s being so  _ good _ despite the relentlessly fucked nature of the situation.

Well, it’s been nice dating him while it’s lasted.

“Oh  _ god _ , I’m  _ sorry _ , I—” Lance cuts himself off with a slick, choked, strained groan. He feels another little surge get caught, his body fighting itself, but this time he can  _ hear _ it break free; hear the loud, echoing sound of three droplets hitting styrofoam.

_ Keith _ can hear it.

God, Keith can  _ see _ it.

He can’t tell if his bladder is stuck in cramp or if the pain is just making it feel that way.

“It’s alright, keep going,” Keith whispers.

Lance wrings his hands on the steering wheel with a soft creak. He wants to sob. It almost sounds like he does when he repeats, “I’m sorry,” and he’s not even sure if he means for the fact that he is or isn’t going.

A second later, and he knows which.

The first burst comes with an almost impossible increase in pain, the pressure behind it too much too much too mu—

_ Perfect. _

_ Oh god,  _ **_perfect_ ** .

All at once the relief hits; the making of just enough room that the ungodly tension in his bladder starts to dissipate. The muscles in his hips flutter and the aching in his hands becomes a tingle and his abs give up everything but the weak, absent-minded half-compression needed to keep going.

He can’t help it.

He  _ moans _ .

And the sound of his moan juxtaposes against the (loud, loud, so fucking  _ loud _ , even over the  _ engine _ ) sound of his piss echoing in the cup, and he’s so mortified it morphs into a choked off cry (and there’s  _ still _ some relief in it, and Keith is  _ still _ holding his cock  _ while he pisses into a cup  _ and he wonders what his face must look like, all tangled up with dread and respite like this).

He can’t look at Keith. The sound of his ragged breathing is enough. The sound of his piss—liquid against styrofoam against liquid—can’t even become background noise. They shift and sway with the movement of the car, and so does the noise; splashing increasing and decreasing in intensity, rising in pitch as it fills the cup. He can feel a little splatter back onto his own dick. It’s warm; drips down the side of him in a trickle. It must be so  _ shiny _ against the dark flesh of his dick.

It goes on, and on, and  _ on _ . Lance whimpers at it. He’s crawling along the highway—a car or two passes them with annoyed an engine rev. And just when he thinks it can’t get any worse, he gets just distracted enough that the car drifts over to the right and hits the rumble strip. He over-corrects, and the cup is over half-full (and they’d joked— _ joked— _ about it’s obscene size when they’d bought it), and the jerking motion causes some of his piss to splash over the side.

Onto Keith’s hand.

Lance can only look at it for a second, lest he do something stupid like that again. He gets the barest impression of the shine on Keith’s pale skin, along with the sharp gasp at his right, before he’s forced to pay attention to the road again.

“ _ Fuck _ , I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Keith,  _ please _ , I’m so–”

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I promise it’s okay, Lance. It’s fine.”

They talk over and under each other, until eventually Keith leans forward and rests his forehead against Lance’s shoulder. “Lance, it’s  _ okay _ ,” he insists, and he sounds so desperate that Lance shuts up before he can make his (soon-to-be ex?) boyfriend more uncomfortable.

Finally— _ blessedly— _ his stream slows...slows...trickles (god  _ kill him now _ , the sound of his dwindling piss still echoes in the quiet car)...

Stops.

Lance’s breath is a shuddery, wobbly exclamation mark to the whole thing.

He’s never felt such palpable relief in his entire life.

Never been mired in such abject, exquisite humiliation.

Until Keith, probably working off instinct and wanting to save Lance any further mess, shakes him to rid his cock of the last few drops.

And Lance can’t help it.

Keith’s hand is warm.

It’s warm and pale and firm around him.

And it’s the first time Lance has felt it in an intimate area like this, and now that the desperate urge to relieve himself has passed, he becomes very aware of all these things at once.

And when Keith shakes it, it causes just the slightest movement of his hand up and down; the barest  _ tease _ of a more lewd gesture (though that’s arguable, Lance supposes; would it really be considered more lewd than what they’d just done?).

And his cock pulses.

Keith’s hand stills. Lance had been completely soft, and Keith is watching him so closely,  _ holding  _ him so closely, he  _ must  _ notice. He might even notice before the sensation of it hits Lance.

He can’t even apologize. There’s no apology strong enough. He takes a wet breath in, on the edge of tears, and feels his hands begin to shake.

When Keith’s hand moves again, Lance thinks maybe it’s just a shocked sort of spasm; a stupefied stutter before his brain catches up to reality and he lets go and flings himself out of the car and runs away into the desert, far from his crazy ex-boyfriend with the car-pissing kink.

But then it moves again, in an unmistakable, but hesitant, trek from base to tip, grip shifting so that he’s wrapped around Lance’s cock with his hand upright.

His cock twitches again. He lets out a little, “Hng,  _ ha _ –?”

“It’s okay,” Keith whispers, “This is okay. I want to take care of you.”

Another swipe, base to tip. There’s a hint of resistance—his piss, drying, Lance realizes—and wetness soothing it as Keith’s palm gathers a few remaining drops at his tip and spreads them down his shaft.

He’s so embarrassed he wants to throw up.

His cock twitches  _ hard _ .

“ _ Keith _ ,” he says, and it’s not an answer, but Keith takes it as one anyway.

He hardens shamefully fast under Keith’s halting, unhurried strokes.  _ This _ he can’t take—he pulls onto the shoulder of the road and throws the car in park, four-ways flashing, not  _ caring _ , at this point, not fucking  _ caring _ when it feels this good. Keith gasps again as they roll to a halt, and Lance realizes that he’s done it too abruptly and another little bit of the cup’s contents (still in Keith’s other hand,  _ fuck _ ) has splashed over him.

But he doesn’t stop. If anything, his pace increases.

And without having to focus enough to keep them both alive, Lance fucking loses himself to the feeling.

He’s horrified at himself; at the way he arches back and thrusts his hips up a little into that tight grip. More wetness gets spread down from his tip, precome and piss and precome and  _ piss _ , turning Keith’s hand sloppy, making this series of awful,  _ wonderful _ wet slapping noises. He groans and gasps and chokes and huffs, arousal flooding all the infinite little spaces where that painful urge had been before, and he thinks this might be the first time an orgasm makes him cry.

Keith, for his part, just keeps letting out these husky, “ _ Fuck, _ ”s in between his heavy breaths, right against Lance’s neck. He has no idea what they mean, no room in his head for connotation or subtlety when he’s so fucking close to losing it.

“Let go, Lance,” Keith says after a while. “Let go for me again.”

Lance had been right.

He  _ does _ cry when he comes.

A tear slips free and he clutches at the headrest behind him as he arches hard enough for his thighs to jostle the cup in Keith’s hand again, and one white string lands over his shirt before Keith aims him downward and he’s coming directly into the styrofoam;  _ into the cup of his piss that Keith is holding _ —

He comes so hard his arms cramp up at the back, a long line of tension from his wrist to his elbow. He comes so hard he feels it in his throat; in his fucking  _ sinuses _ . He groans through it, but it doesn’t drown out the way Keith keeps murmuring encouragement against his neck: “That’s it, fuck, that’s it, Lance…”

Keith’s hand slows; slows; finally stills, like it’s mimicking the earlier drawn out pace of his boyfriend’s piss and pleasure. The sound of Lance’s laboured breathing is loud in his ears. Keith finally lets him go, and he doesn’t open his eyes as he hurriedly tucks himself away.

He can still feel Keith’s breath on his neck, coming quick and loud—and disgusted, probably; and appalled and queasy and…

Shit, what has he  _ done _ ?

Abruptly, Keith leans back into his seat. “Fuck, Lance,  _ go _ ,” he says, panicked.

“I’m sor—”

“ _ Go, go, go _ .”

“Huh?”

When Lance opens his eyes, Keith’s are focused out the front window instead of on him. He follows their gaze and finds, in the distance, the unmistakable silhouette of a state trooper approaching.

And they’re sitting on the side of a desert highway with a cupful of piss and come, truckers and commuters and families on vacation passing them by. His heart does a sick little syncopation in his chest, and his stomach mirrors it.

He doesn’t peel out—that would probably be more suspicious—but he makes sure they’re off the shoulder and back up to speed by the time they’re passing the cops.

His tear goes dry and itchy on his cheek.

He can only bring himself to glance at Keith once, and finds him staring at the cup in his hand, face red.

He opens his mouth, but he can’t talk around the repugnance in it.

He focuses on the road, and tries to remember the name of the town they’d been planning on stopping in for the night; tries to figure out where, exactly, he’s going to lose Keith forever.

* * *

Keith is horrendously, outrageously, vexatiously hard.

He’s also horrendously, outrageously, vexatiously horrified at his own actions.

Beside him, Lance is staring  _ hard _ out the front windshield, mute, the barest hint of residue visible on his cheek from where Keith had  _ made him cry with a post-piss handjob,  _ like the freak he is.

And he’s still sitting here, so hard he has to prop one leg up to disguise the obscene outline of it in his jeans,  _ like the freak he is _ .

It’s just…

The  _ noises _ Lance had made…

The noises his  _ piss _ had made...

The way his face had pinched and then gone  _ so _ relaxed, blue eyes fighting the urge to close at the relief, mouth open and inviting…

His next exhale comes more raspy than anticipated. He’s halfway to covering his mouth before he clocks the stickiness of it; the remains of Lance’s relief—both kinds of it—gone tacky on his skin. So he holds the cup in both hands, instead, to keep it as steady as possible. But that doesn’t help anything, staring down into that hot sick mixture and remembering the exact moments it had been made:

The tick-tick-tickticktick- _ hiss _ of Lance’s stream starting up properly.

The guttural, punched-out moan he’d made.

The way he’d sighed in such abject pleasure at the feeling.

The way he’d twitched in Keith’s hand, and gotten so stiff so fast, and come so hard that he’d knocked just a little more of that gross-wet-hot-sweet relief over the edge.

Keith is actually shocked that he has any self-control left. After what he’s just put Lance through, he has no faith in his own judgement or restraint, and he wants so badly to pull himself out; to jerk off hard and fast and maybe add to the mess already contained in his hand; to come into Lance’s relief and show him exactly what the whole fucked up situation has done to him.

But instead he sits silently, and tries not to think about the fading warmth of the cup in his hands, or the fading warmth in his pants, or the fading warmth he’s sure is going to come between him and Lance.

* * *

Three hours later and Keith’s managed to find a lid for the cup and ditch it in the centre console.

They’ve said exactly zero words to each other.

Every now and again, Keith catches Lance glancing at the cup, but it’s only because he’s doing the same thing, himself.

Every time they go over a particularly hard bump, the liquid sloshes audibly, and Keith has to concentrate to stay soft in his pants. And it’s worse because…

He’s finding it more and more difficult as the pressure in his bladder ramps up. It’s not terrible, yet; not threatening. But it’s there and it’s increasing with every passing quarter hour and they  _ keep passing gas stations _ as they get closer to a more populated area, but…

But what is he supposed to say? How is he supposed to use the word “bathroom” after what they’ve just gone through? And he doesn’t blame Lance for not thinking to offer a stop—he can’t be sure if it’s a trick of the light, but every now and again Keith is sure there’s  _ still _ a blush on his dark cheeks.

So he looks out the window and tries so hard not to picture Lance emptying his bladder that he can see it in minute detail, and doesn’t think about his own burgeoning need to pee.

* * *

He makes a valiant effort, and it pays off.

They make it to their hotel with the sun bleeding behind the horizon, and Keith even manages to get out of the car and stretch his legs and retrieve his bags  _ and _ stand through check-in without fiddling at the pressure in his abdomen.

He  _ has _ to. Lance hesitates in his seat before grabbing the cup from the centre console and holding it with a cleared throat and another increase to the red on his face. He holds it all the way into the hotel and even  _ sets it on the reception desk while they check in _ (because what else is he supposed to do, with no obvious bathroom in the lobby, and both of them mortified at the idea, anyway?). So Keith  _ has to  _ hold in his own urge, because they’ve both gone so wordlessly  _ all in _ on this  _ not gonna talk about it nopenopenope _ thing.

And he has to hold it because…

Well.

Anyone might be curious, he thinks, after witnessing what he just had. Anyone might be tempted to see what that kind of release could feel like...

It helps that he’s more than a little firm in his pants. He’d be  _ throbbing _ at Lance’s display with the cup if he didn’t have to piss so bad.

He’d be  _ horrified _ at the fact that he’d be throbbing if he didn’t have to piss so bad.

Lance breaks first. They make it up to their room (still in silence, and it’s  _ awful _ ) and the Cuban disappears into the bathroom with the cup straight away. It must not take more than thirty seconds to dump the thing, but he’s in there for a long time; so long Keith finally has to swallow the nervous lump behind his Adam’s apple and knock softly on the door, because the urge in his gut is quickly becoming a  _ need _ .

“Lance, are you okay?” he calls.

He gets a sharp, wry laugh in return. Lance’s “Is that a serious question?” is muffled by the door and, Keith suspects, some part of his body where he’s got his face buried.

“Can we talk about it?”

He hears a thunk, and wonders if Lance is literally banging his head against the wall, or if he’s just sitting on the other side of the door, using his own body as a doorstop.

“Isn’t that usually my line?”

It’s so quiet—almost huffed on a sigh—Keith doesn’t know if he was meant to hear it or not. He makes no acknowledgement, just to be safe.

Besides, he has more pressing matters (he takes the opportunity to dig his hand into the increasing tension between his legs) to attend to.

“It’s really okay, you know,” he says, “I mean...I started it…”

He doesn’t even know if he’s telling a lie or not.

Lance snorts so hard on the other side of the door that it turns into a series of dry coughs. (Keith can’t help but imagine the sensation: the seizing abs, unavoidably tightening right over the swell of his bladder; the beautiful, horrid strain of it all.)

“Can you come out? Please?”

There’s a sigh; some scuffling (doorstop it was, then); and then the door swings open and there’s Lance in all his bashful, blushing glory. He keeps his eyes on the floor, and Keith isn’t sure if he’s glad or not. He must be red, himself (and a little desperate; and a little  _ hard _ ), but he kind of wants to see enough blue to know that Lance is going to be alright.

Even if it means Lance might see…

“Hey,” Keith says. “Look at me.”

Lance doesn’t move his head, but his eyes turn upward, and  _ there _ he is, in that little bit of blue peeking through his eyelashes above his fantastic blush.

“I don’t  _ care _ about…” Keith pauses. That’s not right. “I...I mean I didn’t  _ mind _ …”

That’s not right either, but there must be something in his expression, because Lance softens, just a little. His chin tilts up. There’s more of him there; more blue beneath those long lashes.

“Are you sure? I mean it was…”

Lance’s eyelids flutter in two quick half-blinks, and it’s  _ nothing _ —just a second to think—but it catches Keith off guard.

Because Lance can’t think of what it was.

Or if he  _ can _ think it, he isn’t  _ saying _ it…

Fuck, is Keith reaching here? What does he know about  _ body language _ , socially stunted as he generally is?

But then.

What does he  _ not _ know about  _ Lance’s _ body language, emotionally fixated as they’ve generally been?

But what if…?

But then... _ what if _ …?

Ah,  _ fuck it _ .

He kisses Lance.

Because, as it’s always been when it comes to him, Keith figures if they can’t talk about it, they’re either going to fight about it or kiss about it. And he doesn’t want to fight about it. Not when it was so...

And there’s still that  _ urge  _ crawling along all the lines in his palms.

(It almost makes him want to laugh. Life line, love line,  _ piss line _ …)

(But he doesn’t want to laugh at all, because that would just make him want to lose control…)

(And he doesn’t want that, now, does he?)

(He doesn’t want that.)

(...)

Lance is understandably hesitant; caught in a sequence of back-and-forth jerks, like he doesn’t know if he wants to pull away or not. (Keith knows the feeling; shit, what is  _ happening _ ?)

But, inevitably (Lance has done it every time he’s initiated a kiss—and yes, Keith is keeping track), he does that  _ thing _ . That  _ thing _ where he leans back for a breath of a second and lets out the barest thought of a sigh and dives back in like he’s surrendering and commandeering at the same time and kisses Keith like he’s frustrated that he has no choice in the matter.

And listen.

_ Listen _ .

Keith doesn’t mean for it to get heated.

He  _ doesn’t _ .

He means to reassure his quaking boyfriend and then slip into the bathroom real quick and then  _ resume the reassurance of his quaking boyfriend _ .

It’s just that he’s already mostly hard.

And he’s  _ been _ mostly hard for the better part of the last few hours.

And he  _ fucking has to piss so bad, he _ —

So this little jittery moan comes skittering out his throat as Lance moves in closer, lips firmer against Keith’s. And Lance is always so tactile, so  _ touchy _ like this, so Keith shouldn’t be surprised when he presses in close enough to wrap his arms around his boyfriend’s shoulders and mould their bodies together. He presses in so close it forces his back into a little bend; forces Keith to hold him around the small of his back to keep him balanced. And all scrunched together like that, there’s no way for Keith to hide...no way Lance doesn’t  _ feel _ ...

He can tell the moment Lance notices the state he’s in. His elbows tighten and his fingers clench (which does nothing but haul Keith in closer, and it puts this delicious, horrendous pressure on his abdomen, and he ends up clutching Lance tighter, too, to stave off the ache). He gasps and pulls back and looks down, like he’s expecting some foreign object there to explain what he’s feeling, and his jaw goes loose when he finds nothing but Keith’s cock jutting hard into his hip.

And fuck.  _ Fuck _ , is this what Lance had felt like in the car? Had his stomach dropped like this as Keith initiated those first few hesitant strokes? Had it made him want to  _ die _ like this? Want to  _ die _ and  _ fuck _ and  _ come so fucking hard _ ?

“Lance, shit, sorry.”

His face, dark as it is, goes incredibly red. Keith finds it shamefully attractive; finds himself blushing, too, at the way he can’t stop marvelling at the impossibly high angle of Lance’s cheeks when he gets all embarrassed like this.

“You’re  _ hard _ …” Lance murmurs, and he’s still looking down between them.

He’s still got his arms wrapped around Keith’s shoulders.

“Yeah, I—” Keith licks his lips. The humiliation isn’t helping. He can feel his pounding heart between his legs, and the lewd outline in his jeans twitches. “I, uh... _ Lance _ …!”

Lance swivels his hips, and it could be just an attempt at rebalancing or (finally) an attempt to move away. It must be.

It  _ must _ be...

It isn’t.

He does it again, harder (and  _ fuck _ , he doesn’t know what it’s  _ doing _ to Keith; the way it traps his own cock up against his bladder with a sensation that makes his tongue twist behind his teeth).

“You’re  _ so hard _ …” And then Lance is kissing him again; is biting down on his bottom lip and sliding his tongue into Keith’s mouth with a hoarse, stuttered noise and swallowing what he doesn’t even know is Keith’s desperate, tortured whine as he urgently clenches his pelvic muscles.

He should stop. He should push Lance away and just  _ use the bathroom like a sane human being _ , and then they can pick right back up where they left off…

Only, would they?

Or would Keith return to find Lance’s blush too deep? It’s already so tenuous, this  _ whatever the fuck _ they’re doing; already so steeped in embarrassment...if he pushes Lance away, he fears he may be simultaneously pushing them both into some unknown territory too mortifying to claw their way back out of again. He doesn’t want too much time to think; doesn’t want to give them a chance to complicate further what’s already a horrifically complicated situation.

(Only it’s not complicated at all, really.)

(It’s simple; the most simple, human urge there is.)

(It’s just also so,  _ so _ …)

Lance backs them up until his own back slides up against the bathroom door frame. It forces Keith’s arms out from around his back; he grabs at Lance’s hips, instead, and pulls them harder toward himself (harder into that waiting rush, so that he has to clench up again). And  _ fuck _ , Keith can feel him getting hard, too; feel his dick start to create yet another agonizing pressure point for Keith to fight against.

Lance’s hands slide down his back, then back up under his shirt, and it’s only the second time Keith has felt this—felt his boyfriend’s warm, dexterous hands on his naked skin like this, undeniably and unavoidably sexual in nature, lacking all his usual teasing edges. And  _ fuck _ , it’s such a trip. It had been enough of a trip the first time, splayed out in front of the TV as the movie they’d been watching had rolled credits and eventually returned to the home menu. The cheesy, repetitive music had been a ridiculous soundtrack to their frantic groping, but not nearly enough to make them stop. 

Keith is starting to think  _ nothing _ is enough to make them stop when they come together like this. Not Monty Python music; not a cupful of fresh piss; not the painful twinge making Keith’s throat close up around his moans.

Not the fact that they’ve already done this, today; the fact that Keith’s already had Lance’s (shiny and wet; so fucking  _ wet _ ) cock in his hand and it had been so fucking  _ perfect _ and they still haven’t  _ talked about it _ and…

“Can I touch you again?” Keith asks. He’s already reaching for the button on Lance’s jeans. It forces his hands between them, and Lance is still bunched up so  _ close _ to him, so his own wrists dig into his abdomen, and  _ fuck _ …

Lance buries his face into Keith’s neck. His breath tickles (makes Keith tense suddenly; damn, his situation is getting  _ dangerous _ …), and there’s just a hint of stubble after an entire day on the road. It scratches fierce and wonderful against his sensitive skin as Lance nods and spreads his legs and says, “Yeah. Yeah, please, just…”

It might be wishful thinking on Keith’s part, but he swears there’s still a hint of dampness to Lance’s underwear as he dips into them again. And Lance makes that  _ noise _ again as Keith wraps his fingers around him: a little  _ hng–ha? _ that’s unsure and wanting all at once, and it hits Keith all at once just how badly he wants that sound closer. He wants it groaned right into the hollow of his ear; wants it pressed into his mouth as Lance presses into  _ him _ .

Especially as Lance’s fingers start to twitch and dig in against his back.

Especially as he starts these little cut off jerks into Keith’s hand that nudge them both into that relentless tension between his legs.

“Lance, I want to—I want you to...I  _ want _ ...”

“What is it? You can tell me...”

Shit, Keith can feel him talk more than hear him; feel all that timid frenzy condense against his jugular.

“I want you to  _ fuck me _ .”

To be honest, he’s half expecting a handful of reactions: for Lance to freeze; for him to push Keith away with a startled, “Whuh- _ whoa _ ;” for a sudden, shocking coldness against the warmth where Lance’s breath had been.

He doesn’t expect the way Lance’s teeth sink into his throat with a loud groan ( _ shit _ , the shock makes him jump; makes the tiniest inkling of piss shift dangerously downward), or the way he hardens fully all at once and the little aborted jerks turn into a protracted, rolling thrust into Keith’s palm. “Keith...what...?” he pants afterward, and  _ fuck _ it’s  _ warm _ against the wetness on Keith’s throat, and just  _ thinking _ words like  _ warm _ and _ wet _ …

Keith lets go; mourns the loss of Lance hard and heavy in his hand, but only for a second as he grips him by the hips again and pulls him away from the door; starts leading them further into the hotel room, toward the bed. Every step is a chore; has him curling his toes into the carpet to keep from leaking. (He’s leading them further and further from the bathroom, and it’s so fucking oxymoronic, the way it makes him want to release even more; release in  _ every way _ , oh  _ god _ , what’s wrong with him?)

“ _ Fuck _ , Lance, I’m sorry, I know this is...I know it’s...,” he says, and he hardly recognizes his own voice, shredded with agony and excitement, “I just want you so bad. I want you to  _ fuck me _ so  _ bad _ ...”

They’re kissing again. Keith isn’t sure who initiated it; doesn’t fucking  _ care _ . Not so long as Lance is tearing at his clothes the way he is; pulling back only long enough to rip Keith’s shirt over his head and follow it with his own before he’s diving in again, mouth working down toward his boyfriend’s collarbone while his fingers start working at his fly and…

Oh.

Oh, right.

Lance hasn’t seen him yet.

A sudden bout of nerves settles in Keith’s stomach; a weight that does nothing but sit heavy and unforgiving atop the impulse in his bladder.

Fuck, this is the first time Lance is going to see him, and he’s been holding it for so  _ long  _ and…

Lance’s hands pause. “Are you sure? We don’t have to…” He leans back to look at Keith properly, and his face is still so  _ red _ , so  _ embarrassed _ .

But his pupils are blown wide, too.

And his lips are shiny and swollen.

And his cock is visibly hard.

“Yeah,  _ yeah _ , I’m  _ sure _ , just…”

Lance angles in again; leaves a kiss on his clavicle.

“You’re  _ shaking _ .”

Keith bites his lip; feels the quiver in it.

“I know,” he mumbles, “I know, but it’s not...I’m just really…just  _ please _ don’t stop…”

And then Lance’s hands are dipping beneath the fabric of his jeans and underwear, and sliding down over his hips, and the elastic of his boxer briefs gets caught just for a second on his head, so he’s angled downward, and he can fucking  _ feel _ another few drops move, and he  _ clenches _ against them so his cock bounces again, but this time Lance can  _ see _ , and…

Lance’s voice wobbles at the edges as he runs his fingertips over Keith’s cock for the first time with a sigh, skimming over the flesh like he’s still too afraid to touch properly. It’s so soft it almost  _ hurts _ ; mixes in with the pain already shooting out from his core, making his marrow recede from the bone until his skeleton is hovering over a trapped, compressed version of itself. Keith’s  _ hng- _ **_ha_ ** is decidedly more firm than Lance’s. It’s imploratory; impatient.

“Fuck, Lance, I  _ need— _ ”

He fumbles with Lance’s hand; manages to get his own around it after a second and get those long fingers around his cock properly and  _ squeeze _ so that he can feel the callous on his boyfriend’s trigger finger as it treks hard from base to tip, caught in his own guiding grasp. “Oh  _ fuck _ ,” he hisses, “Like that…just like that...”

It feels almost rude, forcing Lance’s hand up and down his dick like this, but his boyfriend doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, Lance’s other hand finds his own pants and starts working them haphazardly down, and he’s already glistening at the tip when he’s exposed again. 

Fuck, glistening just like he’d been in the car, when he must have felt like Keith does now, and it starts to make the black paladin a little nauseous in its intensity.

It’s not enough. It could make him come, but he doesn’t want to; not like this, when everything’s been  _ too much _ and this is only  _ a lot _ .

It takes a magnificent amount of willpower for Keith to still their fists; for him to pull Lance away by the wrist and, avoiding his gaze, tug his pants off the rest of the way off. Lance follows his lead after a second, and kicks his own jeans down his legs, and it’s all a little awkward and takes too long.

But then he’s blessedly, wonderfully naked, and Keith thinks it’s all been worth it—all of it—just so long as he never has to go without this again: Lance’s gorgeous, flushed, nude body, trembling against his. Lance’s halting movements as they make their way onto the bed, Keith settling on his back and his boyfriend settling above him, uncaring that all their joints knock together just so long as they don’t get too far apart.

“Please,” Keith whispers, “Kiss me again.”

Lance does.

As he does, he settles just a little more comfortably between Keith’s legs, and the weight makes Keith gasp and keen and shudder as he resists, resists,  _ resists _ the urge to piss, even as he gives in and holds Lance by the hair so he can’t escape the hysteria Keith is leaving in his mouth.

And Lance groans, and shifts, and grinds their cocks together, and Keith fucking  _ chokes _ .

“ _ Lance–! _ ”

His knees try to slam instinctively together, but Lance is in the way, so he just ends up clutching him between his legs. And his boyfriend takes that as a good sign (which it is–isn’t– _ is _ ) and starts up a rhythm, grinding forward and back, leaving little smears of pre right over the spot where Keith is fit to burst and it’s torture, it’s  _ torture _ , he need’s him to  _ stop, please, he can’t fucking hold it _ …

“Inside,” he finds himself gasping. “Inside, Lance, I need you to get inside of me…”

“ _ Keith _ …” The breath Lance takes is so deep it forces his stomach down into Keith’s, and the black paladin’s cock twitches again as he holds off desperately. “Do you have…?”

“Suitcase. Front pocket.”

He shivers as Lance gets up. It’s cold in all the spots they’d been pressed together, but more than that, it’s  _ dangerous _ . He feels incredibly  _ aware _ of the fact that they haven’t stopped touching each other until now; haven’t given the mood a chance to turn.

Haven’t given him a chance to really, really refocus on the sheer determination it’s taking to  _ stay fucking dry _ and…

He grabs at the base of his dick; clenches his eyes shut and squeezes hard and tightens his muscles rhythmically because he will not…

He will  _ not _ …

“Keith…?”

He looks up at Lance, standing somewhat awkwardly at the foot of the bed with lube and condoms in one hand, the other on the back of his own neck. And  _ fuck _ , Keith  _ still _ isn’t over it: all that skin on display; all those scars; and right there— _ right there _ —his dark, perfect, wet-tipped cock, foreskin pulled back, curved upward and bobbing just slightly with Lance’s pulse.

But there’s something else, there. Something in Lance’s gaze; in the way it catches on Keith’s hand and the spasms in his thighs.

“ _ Keith _ …?”

He doesn’t know how to answer.

He doesn’t know what Lance is asking.

He doesn’t know what that  _ something _ is, but it’s rapidly becoming all he can focus on; becoming the only thing on Lance’s face outside that surprised kind of arousal.

So Keith says nothing. He just lets his cock go and spreads his legs so that he’s on display in a way that makes him want to crawl into a hole.

Lance’s eyelids flutter like he’s trying not to blink. “Keith, I…” He licks his lips; leaves the bottom one trembling in his tongue’s wake. “Are you sure?”

Keith takes a quivering breath.

Nods.

Lance is quick to crawl back over him. He kisses him deep and slow, and this time when he settles between Keith’s legs, he lets his cock dig in harder; pulses  _ right there _ against the spot where he’s suffering most. And suddenly it’s all he can think about: that  _ this _ is how Lance must have felt; that the relieved moans and sighs he’d let out had been so  _ palpable _ —even secondhand—and now Keith is in real danger of experiencing it for himself and it’s  _ agony  _ and he loves it, hates it,  _ loves it _ .

“Lance,” he starts, but it feels like even the vibrations in his vocal chords might set him off, so Keith just kisses him again and fumbles for the lube and pushes it into his chest.

There are a couple of cold drops against his stomach after Lance flips the cap open. They make his stomach tense, and he gasps, and has to wrap a hand around himself again—just  _ has to _ .

And that  _ something _ takes over Lance’s face again, and his fingers are suddenly  _ right there _ ; right against Keith’s hole. He circles once or twice; applies just a hint of pressure; backs off again.

“You have to  _ relax _ ,” he murmurs into Keith’s ear, and catches the lobe between his teeth (and how the  _ fuck _ does he expect Keith to relax when he’s doing  _ that _ ?).

“Can’t,” Keith says (and it’s the same way Lance had said it, all tight and frantic, and god he’s  _ so hard _ and  _ so full _ ). “Just— _ do it _ . Lance,  _ please _ .”

The sting is exquisite. It’s not the stretch—he  _ is _ a gay man, after all, and has enough experience with himself that he’s ready for that. It’s the fact that he can only force himself loose enough to allow the intrusion, not totally quell the pain, and even once he  _ does _ …

The pressure from the fucking  _ inside _ …

He rocks his hips down hard, and before he can stop it, he feels a little gush; a few drops of warmth against his stomach. He whimpers, and clenches hard, and hides his face in his hands because suddenly it’s very apparent that this is  _ real _ . It’s no longer a series of half-thoughts and maybes, it’s a drop of his piss running down over his hip. He can feel it, and Lance can  _ see it _ , and he’s never been so fucking humiliated in his life.

There’s a pause. Keith gains a modicum of control over his bladder with a shallow breath.

And then Lance withdraws his finger, and holds onto Keith’s hip (right where the remnants of those few little drops are drying on his skin), and forces two back inside.

Keith doesn’t know whether he wants to come or piss more.

He can’t help it—he dribbles a little again, and it makes him want to fucking  _ cry _ to stave it off, especially because Lance  _ doesn’t stop _ . He just keeps thrusting, slow and steady, breathing hard through his mouth.

The stretch is cursory, but Keith has gone with less. It’s barely a minute before he’s white-knuckling the pillow on either side of his head and begging, “Please, please, now, I can’t, I need it, I  _ can’t _ …”

And Lance is rolling on a condom with shaking hands, and pouring more lube over himself, and lining up, and—

He slips off the first time; makes Keith tense and dribble again.

Fuck, that  _ something _ is all Keith can make out on Lance’s face, and he swears he can  _ taste it _ when Lance kisses him again.

And then there’s enormous pressure. Pressure he’s can’t stand,  _ can’t stand, oh fuck, can’t take _ …

He reaches for himself when he feels a little  _ more _ than a dribble break free, but Lance catches his wrist. He reaches down himself, instead, but he doesn’t quite make it to Keith’s cock; stops short of the place he  _ needs _ the pressure in order to stop himself and presses directly on the wicked spot above.

Keith stops breathing.

His face crumples, like he’s going to cry, but there are no tears.

He’s never  _ felt _ …

“Yeah?” Lance murmurs, and presses one more time.

Fuck, Keith has  _ never felt _ …

“Y- _ Yeah _ …”

It all happens very fast after that.

Lance rolls his hips once—twice—three times—

He swipes his palm  _ hard _ over Keith’s bladder once—twice—

Jabs his fingers in cruelly—once—and groans a deep, husky, “ _ Fuck _ ,” at Keith’s whimper.

And Keith loses it.

He cries softly, “Lance,  _ yeah _ ,” and  _ finally _ lets go.

It’s horrible at first. The pain  _ mounts _ until it feels impossible, and he’s still so fucking  _ tight _ around Lance, and those fingers are dug in so _ deep _ .

But then it doesn’t hurt  _ at all _ .

Then it’s…

_ It’s _ …

His voice cracks when he groans. He writhes with the delight of it. And somehow it just gets better and better and it goes on and  _ on _ and  _ on _ , pouring over his stomach with an obscene hissing noise and pooling wet and warm beneath him.

And the whole time, Lance keeps those fingers dug in.

When it feels like Keith’s stream is starting to slow, Lance starts up a series of firm, short thrusts inside him, and the internal force has it increasing again for a moment, and Keith’s eyes flutter and roll back.

It’s barely started trickling to a stop when Lance takes him in hand and starts jerking him back to full hardness, the last few drops flicking over his chest. Keith yelps, and tightens, and plants his feet on the mattress to thrust up harder into Lance’s hand and down onto his cock. The noise of it all is filthy;  _ sloppy _ ; there’s an unignorable wet slapping sound every time his back hits the bed where his piss is soaking in; every time his drenched hips hit Lance’s.

And Lance doesn’t seem to know where to look. His eyes keep darting between Keith’s face and the damp mess of his cock and the place where he’s disappearing over and over again into his body. “I’m close,” he warns, “Fuck, Keith, I’m so close, I’m not gonna last…”

“Good,” Keith breathes, “Good, I  _ want you to _ …”

He  _ needs him to _ …

Needs to know this is real; needs to know he’s not the only one who’s going to come because of the delicious way this all  _ hurts _ .

Lance buckles and surges over Keith as his orgasm hits him. He presses their foreheads together, eyes locked as he ruts forward with no finesse and breathes into the space between them, “Oh god, Keith...oh my fucking  _ god _ …”

And his hand doesn’t stop moving over Keith’s cock; just gets tighter and loses its rhythm. But it’s enough.

He barely hiccups Lance’s name as he comes. He’s so fucking tight and sore and  _ overwhelmed _ , he just lets his body tense and shake and come over the mess already drying on his stomach, and tries his best to stay conscious.

Lance buries his face in his shoulder, afterward, and lazily kisses whatever flesh happens to be closest to his mouth. Keith trails his fingers over Lance’s back; counts the vertebrae on the way up, and again on the way down.

“What happens now?” he asks, and the lack of nerves in it surprises him. Maybe it shouldn’t; he feels all heavy and relaxed, and Lance seems in much the same condition, and the shame is burning low, like coals.

“Shower?” Lance suggests. There’s more hesitance, there; his embarrassed embers threatening to combust. But Keith drops a kiss against his sweaty neck and nods, and they cool again.

There are conversations to be had, he knows, and most likely a steep cleaning bill to be paid and an awkward check-out to get through. But that’ll be later. For now...

“Okay,” Keith says. “Shower.”

**Author's Note:**

> Look.
> 
> LOOK.
> 
> We all have our talents.
> 
> I like to hope one of mine is being able to write anything and make it hot.
> 
> Anything and everything for the craft, yo.


End file.
